


Migraine

by girlingoldboots



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:01:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlingoldboots/pseuds/girlingoldboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early days of their friendship, John helps Sherlock through a migraine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Migraine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theprophetrass](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=theprophetrass).



> Nothing to note. Just a quick little fic to fill a prompt.
> 
> If you're so inclined the tip jar is open:  
> [Buy Me a Coffee](https://ko-fi.com/A4012NV1)

Often there were times when Sherlock reminded John of a cat. In a true feline way he brought home parts from dead bodies as 'trophies' only to display them with pride. He showed affection when he wanted something from someone, and tended to stalk clues as if it was prey. Right now he was in bed, curled up against John's leg and burrowing his head into the soft khaki of his trousers. The comparison was more than accurate.

"Shush, Sherlock. Just relax, yeah?" John said, wishing he could take the pain away from his friend. It wasn't a surprise that Sherlock suffered from migraines. Anyone for whom their mind worked as fast as his did and with that intensity would have to eventually suffer from some sort of synapse. What made it worse for Sherlock was that he considered it a failure of his ' _transport_ '.

John brushed back the hair from the other man's forehead. The damp curls were slightly greasy from sweat and John tried not to think of how much the hair felt like a pelt . "I'll be right back. Get you some paracetamol so you can at least get some sleep?" There was no answer except for a small groan which if Sherlock was a cat ( _which he definitely wasn't_ ) could be considered a mew ( _which it wasn't_ ). "I'm opening the door, so cover your eyes." He told him as he slid out from under the larger man and watched in the half-light how he buried his face into John's pillow.

After carefully opening and closing the door to his bedroom he wondered what was wrong with Sherlock's room that made the man not want to be there, but then he remembered the pale, sweaty man he found in the bathroom hunched over the toilet all the while muttering about how fascinating it was that during a migraine one's digestion shut down and that he was able to see food in the same condition of which it was consumed. They both pretended that it was because John's room was closer to the bathroom than Sherlock's, and not because the other man wanted to be sick and alone. 

He was slowly getting better about eating. And by slow that meant John could force him to eat regular meals and make threats of putting an I.V. of fluids into him. Sometimes it worked. Most of the time it didn't. Sighing he gathered the things together for Sherlock he wondered if this was worth cancelling his date with Sarah for, then pushed that thought away. When the man was sick like this he considered him his patient, and doctors had to tend to their patients needs first and foremost. and if he was being honest with himself things just were not going to work out with Sarah. They'd have to have a talk, and it would make work difficult for a bit, but Molly had said something about being able to get him a job at Bart's if it was needed. He would keep that offer in mind if he couldn't get on at another hospital or clinic elsewhere. Not like the city wasn't full of them. What it came down to was that was she was someone he wanted, but not what he needed. He made his thoughts go back to Sherlock. Anything else would have to be analyzed at another time.

The only lights in the room were from the street lights, but he could still see that Sherlock had sprawled over the bed, face down and at first glance it looked like he was trying to become one with the mattress. "Budge up." he said, administering pills and water. He settled down once again and let Sherlock put his head into his lap. "Hurts, John." he said, pitifully.

"I know. This will help." and he put a flannel that he dampened with cold water over his eyes and the other man sighed with some relief. John ran his hands through the thick hair again to try and gentle away the hurt.

"It's just transport. Why must it be so un-cooperative?" If Sherlock could whinge ( _Which he doesn't. Much_ ) it would have been the beginnings of one.

"You know Sherlock, transport needs to be taken care of." John said, moving his hand from Sherlock's head to his back in gentle circles. "All transports and the like need fuel and regular maintenance. If everything's neglected it will just become useless scrap in a junk yard." Or in a drawer in the mortuary was the silent end to that sentence.

"That's why I have you." Sherlock murmured as the painkillers took effect. The flannel acting like a shield between genuine honesty and John.

"I know." John replied, listening the the steady gentle breathing of the now sleeping detective and continued to rub his back until he drifted off to sleep as well.


End file.
